Faced the ominous voice – His fears quickly subsided when he realized who it was that spoke to him.
"Madame Giry," he acknowledged with a slight nod of the head. Although unsure of what she would further say, Erik did not allow his emotions to betray him at the moment. He wanted to return to Marie-Christine as soon as possible. He longed to see her again and yet he wasn't sure . . . why. Madame Giry, though, wanted to continue this chance encounter.
"Erik," she whispered. "What are doing here? I thought you would have fled Paris by now. Don't you realize that it's been barely over a week? It's still fresh in everyone's mind."
"There is an explanation," he tried to assure her, but she seemed to want to hear nothing of it at the moment. She rolled her eyes and gave him a disapproving look. He looked for a nearby exit, but found himself trapped between a small hallway and Madame Giry. Neither seemed a suitable option. "Not now, follow me," she instructed. Madame Giry took Erik's hand in hers and led him further into the back of the small shop. Once they reached the back exit, she paused for a moment.
"Is something that matter," Erik asked.
"I just need to find . . . ah there it is," and with those words, Madame Giry found the small mechanism for which she was looking. A panel near the exit slid open and she stepped through.
"Are you coming?" she asked as she looked back at Erik.
Erik followed her up a series of stairs. There weren't many, but they were narrow and so both them had to ascend each step in somewhat of a sideways fashion. The hallway was dark and this made things more difficult. Once at the top of the staircase, Erik noticed a door. Madame Giry produced a key and opened the door.
Inside, he could see that this must be her new home. It possessed some of the previous comforts he'd seen when she lived in the Opera Populaire. A tiny bed was situated in one corner. The bedspread was simple; a mixture of gold and green coloring that was complimented with a cream colored fringe. Next to it, a small nightstand, stood. It was made of a light colored wood, almost natural. On top of the nightstand, a few books along with a lamp provided Madame Giry with a necessary distraction for the evening.
"Please Erik . . . sit," she motioned as she pointed to a small chair in the opposite corner of the room. He did as she requested.
"Now," she began as she sat down on her bed. "What has happened to make you risk your life with such foolish behavior? Were you actually shopping for a dress?"
"Yes," Erik answered with a hint of resignation in his voice.
"For whom?" She questioned.
"For a young . . . lady," he paused, unsure of what her reaction would be.
"Then tell me more," she instructed as sat back, ready to hear his story.
For the next few hours, Erik recounted the events of the past week. He began with his first encounter with Marie-Christine and how she saved him from the police.
"She did not turn you in to the police?" Madame Giry questioned.
"No, I heard bits and pieces of the conversation, but if I remembered correctly, she found a most ingenious way to convince the officer that there was no one at her abode and that she had more pressing matters to attend to at that time." Erik did not mention what he had heard Marie-Christine actually say. Thinking back, he found himself rather amused that a lady would mention such a . . . feminine thing to man.
Erik then relayed some of the extraordinary things she'd done, from healing the scars on his back to finding the ring that Christine had given back to him.
"So, if I am to understand, she healed your scars with simply a touch?" Madame Giry was clearly surprised and somewhat skeptical in the events that Erik described.
"Yes. It was like I was floated in a rather warm bath. There was a small burning sensation but then I found the entire experience to be . . ." He searched for the words but could not find it.
"And she found the ring simply by touching your hand?" Madame Giry asked, interrupting Erik's thoughts in the process.
"Yes. I don't know how she does these things, but what she does is . . . done without compensation." He did find it strange that Marie-Christine asked for nothing in return. Although, she did seem to demand one thing of Erik that he found he was giving to her more and more – respect. She simply wanted to be treated as a human being – nothing more and nothing less.
All the while, Madame Giry listened with interest, her attention focused; watching for everything Erik said and did not say. When Erik relayed the final events, including his discovery of Christine's death and Marie-Christine's revealing drawing, and how he wanted to do something nice for her, Madame Giry then spoke. "Well it seems that you have indeed found someone quite unique Erik."
"She is . . . different. I like . . . I mean she'd like . . ." but the words eluded him.
"Do you love her?" Madame Giry asked.
Erik was taken aback by such as bold question, but then he began to think.
Do I love her? Am I allowed to love? How can a monster such as I be in love?
"Erik?" she pressed once more, her hand now resting firmly on his forearm.
"I . . . but what about Christine?" he wondered. Erik did think that maybe he was going too fast. Christine had died perhaps only a week ago and yet here he was in the arms of another woman.
"Erik?" Madame Giry interrupted.
"I'm sorry. You were saying?" he seemed to still be lost in thought.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Why do you wish to know my age? I don't see what this has to do with Marie-Christine." Erik was surprised at this particular line of questioning.
"Please?" she implored.
"Why though?" he persisted.
"ERIK! Just answer the question." Madame Giry had clearly lost her temper, much like a mother with a child.
"I don't . . . well I guess I'm perhaps 36 or 37?" Erik did not know his true age as the concept of birthdays and the celebrations that followed were stolen from him as a child.
"Okay. Now does this young lady . . . does this Marie-Christine seem to want anything of you other than your companionship?" Madame Giry waited for her answer.
"No. As I told you before, she took me in when I was injured. I tried to push her away by letting her see me without my mask and yet, she is still with me." The irritation in Erik's voice seemed to grow with each passing moment. He wanted to return to Marie-Christine and yet, he could not . . . at least for the moment.
"Then listen well," Madame Giry began. "You have had a most difficult life. When I saw you more than twenty years ago, I knew you deserved a better life than what you had. I took you to the Opera Populaire, not really knowing what would occur. You did not disappoint."
"I did not?" Erik seemed to question Madame Giry's explanation.
"No, you did not. You surpassed every expectation I had hoped for you . . . and then some. You lived a life beyond anything I could have ever imagined. Erik, you are an artist, a composer, a magician. You are . . . genius. There is only one thing in your life that you lack." She paused for a moment and allowed him to take in all that she had said.
"I lack many things," he retorted.
"No. The only thing you are missing is a real sense of love. I am speaking of the love between and a man and a woman. I know you thought Christine was the one you. That love was more of a father to a child," she explained.
"It was real," Erik interjected.
"Erik, please listen. You are not getting any younger. Christine is dead. And yet, you have blessed for a second time in your life with an angel from above. From everything you have told me, this young lady, this woman loves you and she loves all of you. Do not let her get away. Leave Paris. Take any money you still have and start anew. Do not allow this chance to pass you by."
Erik did not speak. Madame Giry's words still weighed on his mind. He was about to speak, when she placed her hand on his forearm.
"You must go." She told him. Erik understood. She had him wait for a few minutes and then returned with a simple but elegant dress. It was a lilac color, small lace adorned the edge. The color was somewhat high, but it would suit Marie-Christine quite well.
"What am I to pay you?" Erik asked.
"Nothing, you are a friend. Consider this simply a gift," she told him. Madame Giry then led him to a back exit and bid him a final farewell.
As he walked the streets of Paris once more, Erik began to think of all he was told. Madame Giry was correct in her assessment of Marie-Christine. He was truly blessed. She was an angel sent from above, albeit a different one at that. For some strange reason, Erik thought of how she continued to frustrate and confound him. She would let him delve into self-pity and loathing. Marie-Christine saw him as something he had never truly thought of – she saw him as a man. To her, Erik was living, breathing human being, with all the qualities and faults of any man – as well as the desires of one too.
Before he knew it, Erik was once again and the entrance he used for the Opera Populaire. He made his way through the passageways, being careful as to avoid his own traps. Upon entering, he proceeded to the bedchamber. He looked to the bed and saw that Marie-Christine was not there.
"Marie-Christine?" he called out.
Erik continued to search his lair. He found the curtain to his clothing chamber pulled aside. His head slightly cocked, Erik walked into the room. Marie-Christine was, it appeared, to be going through his clothing.
"Oh!" she exclaimed in surprise. "You came back. Where did you go?"
"I went to find . . . you a dress." Erik held out the small package that contained Madame Giry's gift.
"Erik! You shouldn't have!" Marie-Christine turned ran into his arms and placed a small kiss on his cheek.
"Well, I did not think my clothes would be suitable for much longer. Although, I've never seen someone wear them as well . . ." he paused for a moment. Erik looked down the small table next to his armoire. He could not believe what she had pulled from his past, as it were. Marie-Christine found his costume from Don Juan Triumphant.
"Erik?" she interrupted his thoughts.
"Yes?" he answered, his eyes still focused on the costume.
"Do you know what the date is?" It appeared that Marie-Christine had no idea of the importance or the memories that this costume brought for Erik.
"It is the eighth of February. Why do you ask?" He did his best to contain the painful memories that began to flood back.
"There is a masked ball tonight and well I thought," Marie-Christine's voice grew quieter as she finished her thought, "that perhaps . . . you would . . . go . . . with me?"
Erik closed his eyes for a moment. The memories he tried to contain, had broken through. One after the other cascaded over his mind. He thought of . . .
The masquerade ball at the Opera Populaire . . .
Seeing Christine dressed in the most beautiful gown ever . . .
The ring the rested on the chain . . .
Erik now found the memories turned from sadness to rage. He thought of . . .
How he made one final plea to Christine . . .
How she humiliated him in front of all those in attendance that night . . .
How she kissed him like a lover . . .
How she left him one last time . . .
The rejection . . .
The pain . . .
The hurt . . .
Erik finally found that he take no more. He did not answer Marie-Christine, but instead turned and walked away. He needed to think, even if it was for only a moment. He needed something that would take away the pain. He needed . . . his music.
"Erik?" Marie-Christine was dumbfounded as to his reaction. She quickly followed him to his organ where he sat, his back to her. He placed his hands on the keys and let them rest. Marie-Christine, costume in hand, sat beside Erik on the small bench. She was about to speak with Erik took hold of her, both his hand firmly holding her shoulders. It all came to her in a flash of memories. They were Erik's memories.
She now knew. Marie-Christine understood Erik's pain just like the time before when she touched his cheek and saw his past. Marie-Christine now saw a new pain, his one and only performance at the Opera Populaire. Everything he felt, she saw through his eyes. No words were needed. Tears began to flow from her eyes and she looked into Erik's.
"I didn't . . . I'm sorry," she stuttered.
"What right do you have going through my things?" he hissed, the intensity in his voice ever rising. Erik did his best to contain his rage, but now it was unleashed and Marie-Christine was about to bear the brunt of it.
"I give you life, I care for you and what do you do in return? I find you searching through things that are most personal to me! I cannot believe how uncaring you can be! How could you . . ." but Erik was not able to finish his tirade as Marie-Christine broke free of his grasp.
She stood and looked into his eyes. Taking a deep breath, she began to speak, "Erik, I'm sorry for going through your things. I just wanted to know more about you. When I remembered the masked ball and found this costume, I thought . . ."
"NO! You DIDN'T think," he interjected.
"SHUT UP!" Marie-Christine screamed back.
Erik stopped for a moment. He'd never heard anyone, not even Madame Giry, tell him to shut up. He was about to speak when a hand was placed to his lips.
"Let me finish," Marie-Christine told him as she regained her composure. The more she was with Erik, the more intrigued Marie-Christine became, but she also found him and his moments, although few, of self-loathing and pity to be more than she cared to deal with at times.
She sat down beside him and took his right hand in hers. "Erik, I know you've dealt with much in your life. You have experienced far more pain that I ever thought I could have felt, but as I stated before, you need to respect the past and let go of the pain."
"It's easier said that done," Erik told her, not willing to give in so easily to her words.
"I know. I really do, but when I hold this costume in my hand, I also know that it brought you such pleasure and joy from being able to share your gift of music with the world." Marie-Christine hoped he was truly listening.
"The world turned its back on me," Erik whispered, his head bowed.
"Erik? Please? Try this on once more for me?" she implored. Marie-Christine knew that their discussion was far from over. If she could get him to try on the costume, then she could show him at that he truly was and could be. Minutes stretched until Erik spoke.
"I will do this once . . . and you will see what a mistake it is." Erik took the costume from her hands and proceeded to his dressing quarters. Marie-Christine soon followed and waited on the other side of the curtain. She hoped Erik would see what she saw. For her, the costume was Erik. It was strength, power, masculinity, sexual prowess and so much more. Just then, the curtain was pulled back. Marie-Christine was not wrong.
Standing before was Erik as Don Juan Triumphant. She was truly at a loss for words. Marie-Christine started her assessment, taking note of the resplendent figure that stood before her. Erik's pants fit him much like a second skin, accentuating his well tone and muscular thighs and calves. As Marie-Christine continued taking in the vision set before her, she could not help but want to touch this living breathing man. Looking at Erik, she realized feelings were stirring with her, the likes of which she had never felt.
"Oh . . . Erik . . ." she whispered as she allowed her hand to move slowly over his chest. The shirt he wore was similar to the one in her vision. It was made of the finest fabric, soft to her touch. The opening which was complemented by the trim had left Erik's chest for all to see. Marie-Christine's left hand gently touched his bare skin. It was warm, but with an intensifying heat that seemed to be building.
The jacket was the final compliment to the outfit. Looking at it, Marie-Christine could see that it took, clung to Erik's well-toned muscular physique. She began to slowly circle Erik; much like a hawk would regard its prey. As she moved to his back, she allowed her hand to gently trace along Erik's shoulders and placed a small kiss on his neck.
Erik shuddered under her touch. He knew what she was trying to do. As much as he wanted to fight it, Erik had to admit . . . she was right. However, he did feel that there was only one true compliment to his figure of Don Juan Triumphant.
He turned to Marie-Christine and took her left wrist in his hand. "Well if I am to be what you feel I am and should be, then I have something for you to wear."
Erik walked past her and opened the small armoire. He pulled what was obviously a Spanish peasant costume and presented it to her. "Would you wear this please?"
Marie-Christine regarded Erik's gesture with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. Taking the costume in hand, she then realized what special meaning this hand for him. It belonged . . . to Christine.
"Allow me to change?" she asked as she waited for Erik to leave the room. He did as she requested. Once he was gone, Marie-Christine decided that a change was definitely in order.
Outside the dressing room, Erik waited and paced. She seemed to take much more time than he had done. He wondered if she could sense that the costume he gave her belonged at one time to Christine. On the one hand, he hoped she would and that she would understand his need to see her in the costume, but he also felt conflicted. He knew something was developing between. At the moment, he wasn't sure exactly where things were heading.
When the curtain opened, Erik saw that things were heading in a completely different direction. Marie-Christine stood before him not in Christine's outfit, but rather her own. She kept the black corset, her small breasts pushed gently so that they rested quite nicely, providing Erik with a vision to contemplate. She changed the skirt from a golden hue to that of a deep lush purple. The jewels that were sown in sparkled with every swing of her hips. The black shawl that previously covered Christine's lower body was now replaced with one of forest green. Erik tried to speak, but it was difficult.
"Marie . . ." he began.
"I know what you wanted," she told him, her voice low and rather seductive. "But . . ." she continued as she moved to within inches of Erik, "I am Marie-Christine. I cannot be and will not be Christine." Her hot breath burned against his chest, sending shivers throughout his body. Looking into her eyes, Erik saw something unique, almost primal. It excited him and yet . . . he quickly dismissed his other thoughts. Erik now understood what she had done. Marie-Christine presented Erik with a vision he had never seen of her – that of a woman.
"Shall we?" she broke his thoughts for a second time as she extended her hand. He took her hand in his and smiled. Tonight would be a masquerade. The paper faces would be on parade and Erik could hide his face so that the world would never find him.
The ride to the ball seemed to last quite a long time. That did not, though, bother either Marie-Christine or Erik. Both seemed content to enjoy the quiet peace that the trip afforded them. Neither one spoke more than a word or two and yet, so much more was said through . . . their bodies. Marie-Christine, finding herself a bit tired, leaned against the inside of the carriage. Although the paneling was padded, it was still uncomfortable. Sensing her discomfort as she continued to shift her position, Erik drew Marie-Christine into his embrace and rested her head on his shoulders. He placed his left arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer to him. Marie-Christine smiled and closed her eyes.
As she slept, Erik thought of the night ahead. The idea of attending a masquerade ball both intrigued and unnerved him at the same time. Being out in the public was something of which he had always dreamed. At the same time, Erik was no fool. The recent events at the Opera Populaire were still in many people's minds. It was unlikely that he would come across any problems as this ball was to be held in Lyon, but Erik did know that nothing in life was guaranteed. Looking out the window, he couldn't help but wonder what tonight would bring.
His questions would soon be answered. "Marie-Christine," he whispered as her eyes began to slowly open.
"Erik?" she murmured in response.
"We're here." He informed her.
"Mmm . . . okay," she answered as she sat up once more.
Upon arriving at the estate, the first thing they noticed was the moonless night. Darkness truly prevailed. Erik's anxiety faded somewhat, as he could hide within the darkness that now cloaked the evening. The second thing he noticed was that everyone was in costume. It was impossible to see anyone's face.
"Are you ready?" Marie-Christine asked as she offered her arm to Erik.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am," he replied as they exited the carriage.
Erik and Marie-Christine entered into the ballroom. The vision presented before them was absolutely astounding. Although it was not as large as the ballroom of the Opera Populaire, the Lateur estate's opulence was indeed a sight to behold. A massive staircase stood as the center of the festivities for the evening. Golden statues in the shapes of angels adorned the trim found throughout the room. Three chandeliers hung from the ceiling, leaving no corner unlit. Mirrors provided all who attended with an extended view of the celebration around them. Wine and champagne along with an assortment of exotic foods flowed freely in an adjoining room.
"Oh Erik," Marie-Christine whispered as she clutched his arm. "Thank you."
Erik said nothing. As the continued onward, he took note of the parade of dancers as well as the assortment of costumes they wore. Some wore nothing more than a mask, one side back and the other side white. Others chose costumes that reminded him of various animals – a cat, a wolf, a dog, and all hunters in one way or the other. The women were dressed in modestly elegant gowns. Their richness was no where near that of the Opera Populaire, but they were still beautiful nonetheless. All of the dancers moved in time to the music, enjoying the evening.
Erik soon found a small couch on which he and Marie-Christine could sit. From their vantage point, they could see everything. Erik watched as Marie-Christine observed the dancers. He also took note of how her body began to move slightly, almost as if she were dancing to the music along with everyone else. Erik knew it would not be long before . . .
"Erik?" Marie-Christine placed her hand on his shoulder. She wanted to dance.
"I'm not very good," he tried to dissuade her.
"Oh," her tone of voice did not hide her disappointment.
"However," Erik spoke again. "I will try my best." He gave her slight squeeze of the hand. Marie-Christine's smile beamed even wider.
The two of them stood and move to the dance floor. The music that played was a waltz. It was light and airy, with a certain cheerful and yet haunting beauty to it. As they approached the center of the floor, both took their respective positions. Marie-Christine lined her body close to Erik's, her breasts coming into contact with his muscular chest. He in turn, brought his right hand to the small of her back. On the count of one, they began their dance.
Although Erik performed only the most basic steps, the look on Marie-Christine's face did not show any dissatisfaction. Her smile radiated for all in the room to see. She did her best to keep her head in what one would refer to as the proper position, but at times Erik found her glancing at him, her eyes slowly melting any remaining anxiety he still possessed. They were both . . . happy.
The song soon came to an end. All of the dancers as well as those watching clapped in appreciation for the musician hard work of the evening. The music soon played again. It was a tango. Erik hesitated for a moment. Marie-Christine took hold of his hand.
"Is something wrong?' she asked.
"I've never really done this dance before. I'm sorry." He was disappointed that he could not perform what many thought of as a very sensual dance.
"It's okay. I am simply happy that you came with me tonight." Marie-Christine reassured him.
They were about to exit the dance floor, when the music stopped. Erik and Marie-Christine looked up as their heard a voice from above.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention please?" The voice called out. All attention focused on the gentleman dressed in red at the stop of the staircase.
"Who is that?' Erik whispered to Marie-Christine.
"That is Charles Lateur. He is the gentleman who is giving the ball tonight. He's a bit of an eccentric." She informed him.
Charles Lateur was a rather ordinary looking man. He stood no more than five feet eight inches in height. His frame was small, his age of sixty-five evident in the slow movement of his body. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and possessed a small goatee, the only patch of hair he allowed to grow. Although he was not excessively wealthy, he had done well enough in the world of business. His numerous successful ventures netted him a sufficient profit return. As a result, Charles was able to gradually build what he later terms, the "Lands of Lateur." Part of the tradition that he started with the "Lands of Lateur" was the annual masked ball on Mardi gras. It was one final chance for everyone in Lyon, who had been invited, to indulge in whatever they wished, before the time of Lent arrived.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Charles began. "I have a unique treat for you tonight. It is something rare and virtually unheard of in the world of music. I guess you could say it is the perfect compliment to my growing collection.
Charles Lateur was also known for one other thing. He was a collector on the unique and the unusual. He was said to be in possession of many artifacts of the Ming Dynasty as well as musical pieces that were said to be written by Mozart. Now it would appear, he was about to announce the most recently addition to his collection.
"This music piece you are about to hear is filled with passion the likes of which I have never heard. I came across it by chance. Apparently it was played on the final night of the Opera Populaire. I'm sure you all know that . . ." Charles remaining words began to fade as Erik focused on only two.
Opera Populaire . . .
It couldn't be . . .
How?
No matter how hard he tried, Erik found his past coming back to haunt him once more. The music played and his worst fears were confirmed.
It was Don Juan Triumphant.